Chapter 22

Lorna said gravely, “Tradition, as usual. Tradition says that we do this one way, so it never gets changed. In this tribe, tradition is what we make it to be, but we perfect it before it is allowed to become tradition.”

“John?” came Vickie’s voice from behind him. He turned to face her.

“Yes, my beloved?”

“Take me to our bed and fuck me senseless, love. I need you to show that I am your first wife from home. I have seen five of your children born, so I have a desire to be reaffirmed in our bed with you inside me before I go into labour myself.”

John saw that she was feeling a bit down, as her baby would be at least the sixth child of John’s. He had sympathy for her, and responded accordingly.

“Certainly, Vickie my love. Let’s tell our developing baby that we love him or her as well as each other.”

Vickie told him, “I can still manage the missionary position, darling, or do you want cowgirl or doggie?”
“I think we go with missionary unless you think your belly is too large to use that position safely. I enjoy making love with you in any position, Vickie, and always will, for I am still in love with you, being my first love from back home.”

She smiled at this formal recognition.

They retired to their bed of furs, their hands wandering over each other as they walked over to the spot.

Chief Numa watched as they went, and thought it was romantic, though her mind did not use that term, but the meaning was similar. It was her response that John was again showing his love to one of his loves, and she thought that was wonderful, just as it should be.

John had never once neglected Vickie as his wife, even though he made it clear that Numa was the leading wife in the family. Their family here needed a first wife who was aware of all the background to life in this era, and John recognised this fact by making Numa Chief of the tribe as well as leading wife of the family. Vickie knew how essential that was for the tribe’s future. Numa was quite secure in her position and even more so, now that she had a son who was the oldest child in John’s family; the first born son, always a favoured place to be, in any society.

John had now totally forgotten what he wanted to say to his new wives.

The next day the weather deteriorated sharply, with the wind getting up, blowing ever stronger. John was slightly worried about this change and asked Numa what it presaged.

“This wind seems very strong in comparison to normal, Chief Numa. Does your past experience tell you what is happening?”

“It happens almost every year in the time of summer, with the wind coming in from the sea, stronger and stronger, then it fades. At times we get a massive storm with heavy rain slashing down as well as terribly high winds that can damage many trees. Most tribes depend on their Shaman warning them if it is likely to be one of the dangerous storms.”

“Well, this particular Shaman has no idea of what to forecast, my love. It sounds like a hurricane, but I thought most of them moved much farther north to that large continent before hitting land. I suppose the odd one might swerve in to this coast if the air pressure pushed it this way. This may be what is happening, but I am not certain. These storms have been known to swing this way and that, unpredictably. Have you known one to cause severe problems in this locality?”

“There was one when I was still a girl. I remember many huts were blown down at the time. Do you think it could be like that again?”

“If the wind gets much higher, it could very well be the start of a major storm complex, what I know as a hurricane, hitting this area. If you think this wild weather is building up in that way, organise the tribe to stay in the cave during the worst of it. A warning to take note of: such immense storms are circular in their shape, whirling round and round, with the outer parts being the fastest, so that the central part is peaceful, like a circular swirl in a stream.

This means that you get a bad time of storm, followed by a temptingly quiet lull, then a repeat of the bad storm conditions. You must warn the tribe to stay inside for both sides of the storm, and not to venture out at any time until you are sure all of it is over.”

“What about our duty guard at the forest edge?” Numa wanted to know.
“Cancel it during the time of the storm. No-one is going to attack us during one of those storms, and after being battered for much of a day or a night, an enemy will be in no fit condition to harm us afterwards. There will be a great deal of clearing up to be done after the storm is over, I promise you that. Expect the trails to be blocked in places with fallen branches or even trees.”

“So we would be best to bring our animals into the cave during the storm?”
“Damn right, if space permits! Put them all on rope leads and fasten the ropes tightly to stakes driven into the ground, for frightened animals will try to run away, not understanding that all directions are just as terrifying. Being outside would be dangerous for them, with branches and other debris flying around, just as it would be dangerous for humans to be outside in such conditions.”

He stopped speaking, thinking of a problem.

He continued, “When it comes to knotting the rope at the stake, you should use what I call a slipped constrictor knot. It is a knot that tightens as it is pulled. I’ll demonstrate to several people how to make it; including the end that you can pull to release it afterwards. It doesn’t always release easily, so if that happens, use a knife to cut through the knot.”

Numa nodded. “I’ll get several of the men, plus Raka as our Maker, to learn how to make this knot and how to release it later. It will take some strength to get these animals tied where we want them, and the men are stronger in muscles, but us women are tougher in other ways.”

“Good. In the meantime I can get my Mountain tribe wives to decide which one comes back with me when I return there. I have to formally resign the position and install the new Chief into the post. I want one of my new wives to be there to show off, and have her tell everyone that I have been good for these women, so that the Mountain tribe can feel relieved about the final outcome.”

John returned his attention to the teenagers, and apologised to them for not speaking with them yesterday.

“I got diverted by my wife from my homeland, ladies. She needed a husband’s physical love to assure her that I have not neglected her. You will understand that, when I am asked by my wife from my homeland, I had to give her my full attention. You younger ladies will get the same high regard as you settle into our family and be similarly well regarded.

What I am seeking now is a volunteer to come with me when I go back to the Mountain tribe to resign as Chief and install Gomoro as the new Chief. I did not guarantee him that status, but I left him with enough incentive that I think he will have made a start in the job, just as you youngsters have started your integration into Numa’s tribe as my wives. My volunteer will come with me to explain to the tribe that all six of you are pleased with your new lives in my family. The tribe has to know that I am a Chief who works for the good of the tribe, and that my choice of new Chief will continue that policy, and make it a tradition that is expected in times to come.”

The girls all started to speak, but he halted them.

“Not now, my darlings. A storm is coming, so we will not leave until it has come and gone, leaving us a safe journey there. Talk it over, and work out who can do this task best. I think Cramona should not be chosen as she had much of my time recently.”

Cramona produced a sulky scowl at this ban, but saw the simple sense in the decision and shut up.

“Okay, girls? Ulp, I meant: are you fine with that, ladies? The word ‘girls’ back in my homeland was used as a term of endearment, not an insult to a woman. Some even used the term ‘baby’ to indicate loving each other. The term ‘okay’ is another strange word, but means simply a form of expecting agreement. I have no idea where that came from. Now, I apologise if I offended any of you wonderful ladies by calling you girls.”

Marmora said, “I am not offended, John my husband. Any words you use are fine, if your intent is clearly one of respect and love. This was an example, as I am sure we all know. Your companion going to the tribe should not be me or Perumba, as our parents are dead. Take a woman who can be seen by her family as having prospered with you. She can aver that Marmora and Perumba are content with their new husband.”

John told her, “I take your argument as a sound one, Marmora, but I will leave it to you women to make the important decision of who goes with me.”

Outside, the wind was even stronger, and Chief Numa sent a messenger to the outer guard post to retreat to the cave, immediately. The two guards fought their way back through the gusting wind, using the butts of their spears as support sticks on the ground to stop them being blown over as they ascended the slope. At last they stumbled into the cave, and were helped into the sheltered area.
“By the Earth Mother, it is impossible out there! I have never seen winds so strong,” declared the outer guard.

Chief Numa was there to order them both to the back of the cave, to give them a chance to recover.

“We are moving everyone back as far as we can, for we have no idea how bad this is going to get. Watch out for the animals we have brought into the cave. They are tied down, but scared. I hope none of them get free in these conditions. Any animal or human that goes outside is shortly likely to be swept away by the wind, and killed.”

She gathered those selected to learn the slip knot. John showed them and had them practice it before they set about gathering the animals inside. The dogs were easiest, as they kept as close as possible to their pack leaders – their human masters. They would stay with the human pack leaders without needing to be tied down; they could see the danger outside, and their ears were already flattened to their heads.

The entire tribe hunkered down for the duration, fearful of what was occurring outside. Children were already screaming in fear at the noise of the high winds, and their mothers were trying to comfort them, while the fathers were trying to shelter them as best they could with their bodies. The new mothers had been helped, semi-carried, into the darker more sheltered region of the cave, their babies clutched in their protecting arms. The new babies caught the scent of fear, but instinctively knew they were safe in mummy’s arms, gathered to her comforting bosom. The cook fires were left unattended and swiftly burned out with all the extra air coming their way like an oversize bellows. The fires could be relit later, once all the excitement was past.

John sat cross-legged on a rolled animal fur near the open frontage of the cave, observing the progress of the hurricane that he had decided this was. The overhang above gave him shelter from the worst of the winds and he had his back to the wall for support in case of unexpected gusts.

With luck, it was just the edge of the circular mass that was touching them, but who knew? Once over land, he knew, hurricanes lost much of their power within a few hours, deprived of warm sea air, unless they veered back out to sea and away from the calming land.

He was certain he would be here for some hours to come, but he had the patience to wait it out. His concern was focussed on the fisher village: what was to become of them at the coastal edge of the continent? The mountain tribe were higher up and further inland, so unlikely to be hit badly. He wondered if his felled mahogany trees would still be where he left them, by the time the hurricane had done its worst. Taking that thought further, how would the sea merchants and their big ships fare in such conditions? Would they be cast ashore, or would they be far enough away to run before the wind and escape the worst effects of the weather? There was nothing anyone here could do about either of these. They would have to take their chances, just like everyone else.

The wind howled on, screaming through the forest below, tossing leaves and small branches into the air, treating these objects as minor missiles. With luck, none would reach into the cave.

After a long time sitting there, John was starting to doze despite the unending whine of the wind, when Numa tapped him on the shoulder.

“John, how can you just sit there facing the howling wind all this time?”

“Apologies, Numa. I was using an old technique to calm my mind and let my interior self find its calm centre, a place of peace. It is not too dissimilar to going into a dream state as some Shamans are said to achieve. Just my presence out here alone should give the tribe some confidence in the outcome, if their Shaman can face the worst.”

“Well, my love, you have made your point. Now, are you going to sit here dreaming until the storm leaves us, or are you coming to the furs and get yourself some sleep? You did say there would be a lot of clearing up to be done after the storm.”

“True. It appears to me that the hurricane is coming fully over the land, so everything outside will be battered and bashed by the winds and whatever gets carried by the wind. I’ll come and try to sleep for a while, as you suggest, my dear Chief Numa.

John took pleasure at cuddling up to Numa for sleep, one arm curled over her and holding her milk-filled breast. He was fully aware that she was not yet healed enough to participate in sex, but she would enjoy the cuddling. He soon slipped over into a tired sleep, and did not notice when the hurricane abated and similarly slipped away into the distance and oblivion.

What wakened him was Numa’s baby wanting his morning feed of milk from mamma’s breast. The boy’s demanding calls worked through John’s consciousness and he became aware of one of the other women handing Geraldo to Numa, and moments later there was a contented silence as the boy found a nipple and sucked to his stomach’s content.

Seeing that Numa was going to be occupied for a while, John kissed her lovely mouth and whispered, “See you later.”

He got up and stretched, forgetting his nakedness. A female voice declared, “Not bad!” and he realised he was being watched by Malloka.

“Hi. Morning, Malloka. How are you getting on?”

“Fine, John. My pregnancy is no trouble for me, thank the Earth Mother. I hear you have some more babies arrived for you to admire.”

“Yes. Three of them in two days. Everyone is fine, I am happy to say. No residual effects from your illness?”

“No, all the symptoms vanished entirely before long and I have had no bother since then. Your tiny healers did a good job and are probably helping me with my pregnancy.”

“Unlikely, my dear. If your own healthy body is managing without assistance, they leave you alone. Any lifelong problems on the other hand, like a birthmark or suchlike, are probably gone by now.”

“Ah, that explains an embarrassing mystery. I had an extra toe on each of my feet, but I find I am back to five toes per foot; the extras seemed to have vanished without me being aware of it happening. One day I just noticed the extra toe on each foot was no longer there. I was embarrassed at that deformity, I can tell you; which is why I never mentioned it until now.”

“Actually, it shouldn’t have bothered you. That body defect appears every so often in the population, for no specific reason that we know of. An extra toe or finger doesn’t cause any physical problem, so should just be ignored, but if the nanites pared you down to five toes, then that is fine for you. You didn’t have six fingers on your hands?”

“No, just the toes. Does it happen with fingers too?”
“For some people, it does. You can be born with various abnormalities like that, but very infrequently; perhaps one in a thousand. Hands with extra fingers – or even with less fingers - are more noticeable than with toes, but the frequency of either appearing in a new-born child remains very small. It can appear on one or two feet, or one or two hands, but it is unpredictable. It is a perfectly natural occurrence, caused by a similar process that very very very slowly changes one animal into another animal.”

Malloka’s attention moved back to his naked body.

“Are you going to get dressed, or do you intend to use that male rod on me or someone else?”

“As you have mentioned it, I might just use it on you. Do you like the idea?”
“Yes. It had been some time since you loved me like that. You are always too busy doing important things for the tribe, or doing other wives, so I don’t get enough of you. Come to my furs now, my John, and do your husbandly duty. No need to make me pregnant, as you have already done so, just make me feel good once more.”

By the time he had made Malloka feel good, he knew he needed a good wash, so he ventured out into the morning light to seek out the stream if it still flowed as before. Debris had a habit of blocking streams at unexpected spots.

Fortunately the stream had become dammed near the bottom of the slope, where some of the trees had been chopped down earlier. Branches flowing down with the water had managed to get caught crossways between small tree stumps and started the damming work, completed by lesser floating debris and a conglomeration of divots, small stones and gravel, making a dam that only allowed a small portion of the water through, building a pool behind the blockage.

John brought a bar of basic soap and used the pool as a washing station. He had forgotten liquid soap, so used the soap bar for his hair. It was not so successful, but it would do for now.

He was out of the water, making his dripping way back to the cave and his clothing, when he encountered a dressed Jean, complete with a clean set of clothes over her arm and a bag of liquid soap dangling from her hand which held a soap bar.

He commented, “You are more organised than I am, Jean, and look delicious too. You always manage to look ahead each day.”

“FBI training, John: get organised. It is almost like the old scout motto of ‘be prepared’. We were taught a similar mantra and I find it useful even now.”

“Good for you. I was down there, naked, to wash with a bar of soap, then realised I had not brought clean clothes or even hair shampoo. Anticipation is not a reliable male trait when it comes to domestic chores.”

“I had noticed, but you are never slow at getting your women pregnant. I found that out for myself. When I am washed, can I talk to you about records?”

“What kind of records? It is a bit early for writing a history of the tribe.”

“But not for the clan – your family. That is what I want recorded, but later. I am in sore need of a wash.”

“Do you want me to help you by washing your back and your hair?”

“Tempting, but you will end up fucking me again, won’t you?”

“That might be so, but I can restrain myself at times, even for a lovely woman like you, my gorgeous Jean.”

“You never stop romancing your women, do you, John?”

“I suppose not, but why should I stop? I like the feelings I get when I act like that, immaterial of whether it leads to lovemaking or not.”

“Very well. I can tell where this is going. Come back with me to this new pool.”She hesitated then said, “If you fuck me first, I can wash afterwards, and get really clean; but start with washing my hair, for that makes me feel sexy.”

“You also look sexy when you get your kit off, Jean.”

“Even with this little bulge to my tummy?”

“Pregnancy make any woman look more glorious, I find. You are no exception, my darling wife.”

Jean made him stop his romancing and get her hair washed pronto; then they fucked strenuously in the water before she allowed him to wash her back. Then she ordered him back to the cave while she completed her toilette and got dressed. John left her and recovered his clean clothing; the high ambient temperature and the soft passing breeze helped him to dry off.

John was dressed and his hair combed with one of the bone combs that were made in the tribe, before she was finished. Every tribe had comb makers, it seemed to John, for there was no discernible trade in combs, yet there was no shortage of them anywhere. They were easy to make, he surmised.

Jean found him standing in the cave entrance, looking out at the devastation in the forest.

“Looks bad, doesn’t it?” she remarked. “I am not used to see a forest after a hurricane. I have always been a city girl.”

“It always looks like devastation after a hurricane, but it will be back to normal next year, apart from some weak branches bent off larger trees. Most trees rebound well, as they have lived with these weather conditions for millions of years.”

“Can we have that serious talk now?” she asked.

“Yes. Serious in what way? What subject did you want to talk about? Records was the word you used, but that is a bit vague.”

“That is correct. I was thinking about you and your family ... sorry, OUR family. I still subconsciously find it surprising that I am married to you and expecting a child in this backwater. Anyway, we need to make a record of all your children and who the mothers are.”

“Why? The mothers know their babies, and the children will always know their own mothers. What’s the problem?”

“I was thinking of a generation or two down the line. It could get complicated. First of all, you are not going to stop at fifteen wives, are you? There are the daughters of Chief Mongo that have decided you will marry them when they mature, making them acceptable members of society again, plus others like young Jeeka whose horrific experiences makes her see you as her only possible choice of a husband; you are her hero, remember.

These additional females will probably end up with children, adding to the expanding pack of your offspring. To me, getting the facts organised for the future is important for when our grandchildren start asking questions about who is related how, to whom. That might become important for possible siblings marrying, needing to know about where you fit into their family line. I know that one-off brother-sister relationships have a low chance of birth defects, but you don’t want this to become an acceptable norm, I am sure.”

“Oh. That’s true. Mallorka had six toes on her feet, but the nanites corrected that mutation. We don’t want to encourage mutations like that. What is your plan, Jean?”

“We need to write it all down in some way, to keep a record that can be referred to as time goes on. How long do you expect us to live, with these nanites in our bodies? Have you thought about that?”

“Are you kidding? I hardly have time to think about anything. I am always faced with problems to be solved, women seeking my loving attention, and diplomatic overtures from other tribes, shamans and Chiefs, not to mention my dealings with the other time travellers in the northern continent. I am just hopeful I live long enough to get everything done that needs to be done.”

“Well, buddy, delegate the record-keeping to someone you can trust to do the job correctly. That means someone who knows the art of writing, so for the present, that means us three women from the USA. Who do you trust best to give the job to?”

“Probably Vickie. She thinks of me as her ‘always’ husband, planned for a while back home, even if she got a little delayed in the queue to marry me, so she may have the greatest inbuilt incentive to record the family tree.”

“That sounds right to me. While I support the idea of making records, I am not the type to want to do the actual recording. I have enough complications through coping with the new reality of becoming a mother; that was never in my life planning when I started my career. Yes, leave it to Vickie to compile the data and set it down.”
“How do we make the record, Jean? I don’t think our stores included paper and pencils or ink. What could we make ink out of, anyway? I think historically it came from oak galls, formed by the oak tree after the gall wasp laid its egg on the growing tree branch. Question? Do we have gall wasps and oak trees in this area? If not, we are back to square one.”

Jean was non-committal. “How would I know? You’ll need to ask a local, probably a herbalist, as they would know of uses for an oak gall.”

“I think I’ll start with Sheila. If her botanical knowledge doesn’t stretch to Central America, she can check with local herbalists. That would be easier than going through books in our cave library; most of these are based on data collected in Europe or the USA, not to mention introduced species in recent times there which confuse matters.

But what do we write on, as we don’t have paper?”

Jean suggested, “Alternatives. So, do any local tribes make pottery? I recall that in ancient times, broken pottery, know as pottery sherds, were used for writing on. Even better were broken pieces from ceramic vessels that had been used as cooking pots, for the outside was fire-blackened, and you could write by scratching off the soot, revealing the lighter colour beneath.”

John responded, “I was thinking of slate or a similar flat stone for writing on. What would you write with on slate?”

“Same as was done before 1900. A pencil made of softer slate or soapstone, to be able to make a mark. All that is needed is for it to be a lighter colour than the hard slate background. That would most likely mean very thin scratches on the surface, but easily wiped off; not good for a permanent record. You need a means of scoring your words into the surface of the slate. To get into the surface, that requires a tool that is hard and sharp, like a pointed chisel, perhaps an obsidian knife with a sharp point. How easy would it be to achieve decent writing incised into the surface? I suspect difficult, unless you had a writing style that was all straight lines. Many letters in Latin-style capital lettering have curved sections, such as B, D, G, J, O, P, R or S. These are more difficult to incise.”

John argued, “I have seen Latin inscriptions with letters such as B done with straight lines like a V on its side, one above the other. We could try that if we chose slate as the surface to write on.”

Jean told him, “You are getting ahead of yourself, John. Back to basics, man, and see about any kind of paper substitute. Get Sheila started on the ink question, and we can take it from there. We have the leather we could use for making parchment or vellum. That was more permanent than paper for many centuries.”

“Oh. What is the difference between the two words?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I was told that vellum was French, and based on calf skin only, while if called parchment it can be made from the skins of several different animals including goats and sheep. One version worked as well as any other skin.”

John pondered, “I wonder which animals here can be used for their skins to be turned into parchment?”
Jean was less than enthusiastic. “Do we really want to write all our historical records on parchment? That material, in this moist environment, will be subject to damage by dampness, high temperature and humidity, and insect depredation. I would prefer something more permanent. Parchment would suit non-permanent writing, such as lists of things to do, or numerical data such as how many sheep the tribe has, so you know how many fleeces to expect each year, and how many lambs are born each year, less older sheep used for food. Permanent records are a whole new ball game.”

John enquired, “Got any ideas along that line?”

“The ancient Mesopotamians or Sumerians – I don’t know which - used baked clay for their records. They impressed their lettering with a stylus when the clay was soft like putty, then baked it hard or left it to dry slowly. When it was dug up from their ruins thousands of years later, much of it was intact, even though some had been damaged by building collapses or fires. How does that grab you?”

John was interested, but commented, “I expect we can find suitable clay, and building an oven to dry out the clay to make it hard shouldn’t be too much trouble. Weren’t these clay tablets not much more than hand-sized, though? How do we make large ones for a longer story?”

“That would be decided by the size of your oven, if you need the clay fired, John.”

“Damn! I was starting to imagine a family tree diagram, showing all my wives and concubines, and their children, to be expanded later when the kids grow up and have their own children. The question is whether my wives’ parents should be shown on the diagram as well. What do you think, Jean? Include your parents, or treat us as the starting generation?”

“Didn’t you say that some of your new wives had parents that were dead, or didn’t want their daughter back, or were facing risky situations such as an abusive stepfather? Would any of them want their parents memorialised?”

“Good point. We shouldn’t include some but not others, so I think this means we use ourselves as the starting generation. That cuts down the size of the diagram considerably.”